Love of Fortune and Steel

Part 1

Under the moon's faint light, the weary Vakerian troops withdrew from the battlefield. A shallow curve in the coastal road, flanked on one side by the whispering Aegean Sea and on the other by a jagged rock face, offered a precarious refuge. It was far from ideal, but in their battered state, it would have to suffice. The soldiers formed a defensive perimeter around James's conjured truck—an improbable marvel from another age—and the stretchers arranged in rows nearby. Round shields and spears bristled at the edges of this makeshift fortress, a rough barricade of weary men and women determined to guard against any further surprise attacks.

Amid the wounded, James worked tirelessly. With Seraphina's subtle interventions, he had managed to conjure not only advanced medical supplies but also a handful of sturdy stretchers and a mobile medical kit, standard in his own time. Inside and around the truck's open rear compartment, these modern miracles stood in stark contrast to the early medieval world they now inhabited. Soldiers and officers looked on in hushed astonishment. They had seen James's conjured transport before—his "divine wagon," as some called it—but it remained a source of endless awe. Tonight, its practical purpose overshadowed any mystery: it was their only hope of tending to the grievously wounded before infection and blood loss claimed them.

Velika lay on one of the stretchers at the heart of this makeshift sanctuary. Her armor had been carefully removed below the waist so James could treat her pierced leg. The glowing LED lamp he had produced illuminated her pale, grimacing face and the meticulous bandages he applied. He administered an IV drip of saline and a potent blend of antibiotics and painkillers—substances unknown to this world but now invaluable. The soldiers stationed nearby exchanged uncertain glances. Was this magic or a marvel of distant lands? Velika accepted James's care without complaint, having full faith in Seraphina. She refused any special screen or privacy; after all, she was first and foremost a warrior, then a woman. As a veteran and a widow, she cared more about remaining relatable to her troops than preserving abstract notions of modesty. If her comrades could suffer openly, then so could she.

Just a few steps away, Bisera slept soundly on a foldable military cot that James had retrieved from the truck's storage compartments. She remained in her armor, too exhausted to remove it. Her fierce, mana-fueled display had saved James and Velika's lives, but at a devastating physical toll. Dust and sweat clung to her golden hair and defined features, giving her the look of a battle-weathered statue. In the surreal glow of modern lamps and torchlight, she appeared both heroic and heartbreakingly human. A pair of soldiers hovered anxiously at her side, unsure whether they should remove her armor or simply let her rest. For now, James decided for them: Bisera needed sleep first and interventions later.

Across the small encampment, other wounded soldiers lay on conjured stretchers. James's supplies—sterile bandages, disinfectants, and antiseptics—prompted startled gasps as he cleaned burns inflicted by Gillyrian fire, set broken bones, and stitched gashes using methods centuries beyond the rudimentary surgery of this world. Whenever a soldier winced or cried out, James offered quiet reassurance. Even as despair curled at the edges of his heart, he pressed on. He had been helpless to save Garros, and that failure weighed heavily on him. Now, the least he could do was save those who could still be saved. Ironically, James's childhood dream had been to become a doctor, but his father insisted their family needed someone proficient in economics and finance to break through the invisible ceiling that prevented their rise from upper-middle class to true wealth.

Occasionally, a soldier whispered under his breath, calling this spectacle a miracle. Others darted uneasy glances at the shadowy cliffs, worried about another ambush. All were grateful for James's strange and lifesaving talents. The earlier clash had stripped away any romantic notions of war; now they faced its true ugliness: screams, blood, and death.

Velika, in a haze of pain and healing, tried to still her racing thoughts. Garros's death lay fresh in her mind. She remembered his earnest eyes and quiet devotion, realizing too late what he might have felt for her. She wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all, but the tears wouldn't come yet; the pain and shock still held them at bay. Instead, she looked at James, this strange man who bridged worlds, and found a different sort of comfort in his calm determination. If both Bisera and Garros had believed James was important, then Velika would extend her protective devotion to him as well. She would heal and fight on, carrying the memory of Garros's sacrifice with her.

Bisera drifted between wakefulness and feverish dreams. In her mind, she vaulted once more over lines of spearmen, felt mana surge hot in her veins. But now, instead of chasing an elusive enemy, she saw Garros's face, then Velika's, and finally James's startled eyes as the arrow nearly claimed him. She had awakened something immense and terrifying on that battlefield, and she would need to master it if she hoped to save more lives in the future.

James's limbs trembled with fatigue. He had performed more emergency procedures in these last hours than ever before in his comfortable 21st-century life. His heart still pounded with adrenaline and sorrow. Yet, as he tied off a bandage and checked an IV line, he realized that without his intervention—his conjured truck and supplies—many here would have already perished. In that small measure, he found solace and a sense of purpose that he had been seeking ever since his current leave began.

Outside the crude defensive ring, darkness pooled in the crevices of the cliffs. The Aegean Sea murmured softly, indifferent to the day's violence. Within the circle of torchlight and LED glow, men and women healed, grieved, and tried to understand what would come next. They had survived the Gillyrian assault and the deadly Gillyrian Fire, but at a terrible cost. Garros's body lay covered nearby, a silent reminder that no conjuring could reverse death's final decree.

James paused beside the truck, his eyes drifting upward. He thought of Seraphina's words about responsibility and growth. If he truly wanted to prevent more tragedies, he would need more than medical prowess. Still, that was a question for tomorrow. Tonight, he had done what he could: transformed a bloody field into a makeshift infirmary, soothed suffering with modern skill, and honored a fallen hero by saving others in his stead.

At last, the soldiers began to settle. Their shoulders slumped, their voices softened. Some prayed to the Universal Spirit for the souls of the departed; others thanked Seraphina specifically for James's intervention. The tension eased into a somber quiet, punctuated only by soft groans and gentle reassurances.

As the moon rose higher, silvering the truck's metal frame and the rows of stretchers, James drew a shaky breath. He had wanted to make a difference, and he was doing it now.

Part 2

At last, a hush settled over the makeshift infirmary. The ring of spearmen relaxed, if only slightly. Torches flickered softly, competing with James's LED lamps to cast dancing shadows over the wounded. The truck's quiet hum provided a reassuring rhythm beneath the silence that followed the night's chaos. Soldiers, too spent to remain fully alert, let their eyelids droop, clinging to the hope that dawn would bring no fresh horrors.

James hovered near Velika's stretcher, adjusting an IV drip and checking her stitches. Just a few steps away, Bisera slept soundly in her armor—he'd decided not to remove it yet; rest mattered more. The two soldiers standing nearby watched him with quiet respect. If James said "wait," they would trust him. He found that oddly comforting.

Beyond the rocky cliff's edge, the sea's whisper drifted in, salt-laden and ancient. James inhaled deeply, feeling every ache in his weary body. Still, he had done it: saved lives and stemmed the bleeding of this medieval world's wounds. Strangely, he felt more rooted here than ever before.

Something between him and Seraphina had changed after their earlier extended conversations following Garros's death. She had finally confirmed that she was indeed a supernatural entity whose nature partially—but not entirely—coincided with what believers in the Universal Spirit attributed to the archangel Seraphina.

Greetings, James, Seraphina's voice slipped into his thoughts, delicate yet amused. Quite the evening you've had. You handled yourself admirably for someone who once thought of these people as distant curiosities.

He inhaled quietly, not wanting to startle the resting soldiers. They're not curiosities anymore. They're people I care about. I never wanted to see suffering this close, but maybe I needed it to understand what's really at stake.

Indeed. Before, you drifted unanchored. Now you've tasted war's bitterness. Congratulations—you've earned your first stripes as my knight-in-training.

He arched an eyebrow. Knight-in-training? When did I sign up for that?

Oh, just now, she said lightly. Consider it your inauguration, courtesy of blood and tears. I had to ensure you understood the cost of inaction before handing you responsibilities. Now you do.

He let that sink in. Knight-in-training. It conjured images of squires polishing armor and struggling with heavy swords. He had neither sword nor armor, but he had resolve. That would have to count for something.

Seraphina's laughter tinkled like distant bells. Don't worry, I'm not expecting you to become a master swordsman overnight. In fact, I promised you something earlier—a system interface. A helpful guide, since you seem fond of visual aids.

Yes, finally! James thought, barely holding back a grin.

Hold still. Without warning, the air before him shimmered. The soldiers, lost in their own weariness, took no notice. In the hush of the coastal night, a transparent panel flickered into existence at chest height, glowing a pale, otherworldly blue.

James reached out, his fingertips meeting gentle resistance, as if tapping on a midair touchscreen. The sight was surreal: holographic menus in a medieval war camp.

Ta-da! Seraphina said, feigning a dramatic flourish. Your very own heads-up display. Check stats, view missions, maybe earn upgrades if you behave.

He tapped a shield icon:

Physical Condition: Level 2

Mana Channeling: Level 0

Travel Ticket: 0.5/1

He snorted softly. Level 0 mana. Guess I'm not a great mage yet.

Dormant, not hopeless, Seraphina corrected, mock-stern. With training, you might open that channel. The travel tickets, however, depend on missions. Complete them to earn increments and maybe unlock… oh, I don't know, Bloomberg news mid-battle.

He almost laughed. This is a real world, right? Not a game?

Very real, her tone turned serious. Real blood, real consequences. The missions are guidelines. Complete them, and you might gain more tools.

He pulled up the Missions tab with a thought:

Mission 2: Defeat and show mercy to Governor Nikolaos. (Incomplete)

Mission 3: Improve physical condition to level 3 by training with Bisera. (Incomplete)

Mission 4: Win the hearts of the people of Thessaloria. (Incomplete)

So… I have homework, he mused wryly.

Think of it as a roadmap, Seraphina said, her voice dipping to a teasing murmur. Speaking of roads, let's discuss something important. You've seen what war does. You've felt heartbreak—Garros's death, for instance. But trust me, death is beyond my reach. I can't raise the dead. If I tried, I'd never finish guiding you toward suitable mates or a sensible life.

James blinked. Mates… plural? You're encouraging me to… what, start a harem?

Calm down, I'm not handing you a bridal catalog, she purred. But be open-minded. Lives are short and uncertain, especially here. Flexibility often trumps rigid standards. Just don't get carried away.

He sputtered. I'm not planning a harem!

Seraphina laughed softly. No one ever "plans" one. But remember, this world's standards differ from your own. Physical labor makes many peasant ladies—or even warriors like Bisera—athletic and appealing by your world's beauty standard. After your recent betrayal back home, you might find their loyalty and strength intoxicating. Another mortal from your world once fell into that trap.

James's curiosity piqued. Another mortal?

Fifty years before your time, I guided a someone from your world—heartbroken by infidelity, hungry for purpose. He was a soldier by trade and rose quickly, performed heroic deeds, united lands, helped the poor, and relished the devotion of athletic, grateful women. Eventually, he built a harem of loyal lovers, as that land permitted such arrangements. But he overindulged, damaged his health, and then decided that seeing my human guise—just a fraction of my divine beauty—would help him build immunity to earthly temptations.

She sighed. Instead, he became obsessed with me, abandoned all his activities, and spent all his time commissioning sculptures to recreate my likeness. He killed himself after realizing that he could never replicate my perfect visage using stone and marble.

James winced. That's… tragic.

Indeed. He forgot balance. Desire, ambition, and lust can fuel greatness or ruin. Her voice softened. Learn from his mistake. I'm not forbidding you from enjoying life or exploring companionship. But focus, James. You're my knight-in-training, not a collector of admirers. If you want someone, consider Bisera—or someone similarly stable—rather than scattering yourself thin. Your energy is better spent completing missions and improving yourself, not juggling countless admirers.

He swallowed, grateful for her honesty and oddly relieved by her understanding. I get it. Stay grounded, focus on what matters: helping people, growing stronger, learning mana from Bisera.

Perfect. Also, do me a favor and never think to "reset" your desires by seeking my true beauty. That's like using a nuclear warhead to cure a headache. She paused, amused. I'm off-limits, remember? Trying to "immunize" yourself to earthly temptations by gazing at divine perfection only leads to worse addiction. You don't need cosmic heartbreak on top of everything else.

James's cheeks warmed. Noted. No cosmic heartbreak.

Excellent, she teased. Now that we've established the ground rules—no harem madness, no cosmic crushes—let's talk training. Healing is noble, but imagine if you'd blocked the arrow that killed Garros or disarmed a foe before they hurled Gillyrian fire. Prevention beats the best antibiotic. Bisera can help you train once she recovers. Mana or muscle, you'll need them both.

He smiled faintly. Even after all tonight's tragedy, her banter felt like a lifeline. I'll learn, one step at a time.

Good. Consider this your official induction ceremony. No trumpets, no banners—just the hum of your truck and the soft snores of wounded soldiers. True change happens in quiet moments, when you decide who you are.

He breathed deeply. She was right: he had changed. He had stepped into their suffering and acted. That meant more than any grand coronation ever could.

Thank you, Seraphina, he thought sincerely. For guiding me.

Part 3

Night pressed heavily against the private solar where Count Niketas of the Cadramirum family brooded alone. Outside, the distant roll of the river and the hush of sleeping servants reminded him that, as always, his secrets were safest at this late hour. The only light came from a few trembling oil lamps, their pale flames licking at the velvet darkness. Shadows stretched across the painted murals and bronze vessels, twisting the familiar shapes of his wealth into something alien and watchful.

He had long suspected Emperor Simon's treachery—knew the man sought a scapegoat for political failures. Yet Niketas had not expected the very air to announce the coming of a stranger. First, it was a chill rippling through his robes: a subtle, unnatural cold that prickled at his scalp and made his heart skip. Then, from the corner of his vision, the murk itself began to coil and rise until it took the shape of a woman—no, not a mere woman. This presence shimmered as though woven from midnight and starlight, her form seductive and languid, each limb moving with eerie grace.

She stepped free of the darkness as a serpent might slip from a hidden nest. Taller than most women of his lands, she wore filmy, translucent fabrics that revealed more than they concealed. Her skin caught and softened the lamplight as if lit from within, and her hair, dark and flowing, framed a face that was not beautiful in any mortal sense—rather, it was compelling, dangerous, and oddly perfect. Niketas saw in her eyes a softness that beckoned, and at the same time, the gleam of a predator's hunger. She reminded him of old forest spirits and whispered demons from half-forgotten folktales. A Mistress of the Abyss, some would call her, a succubus who could devour a man's soul as easily as tasting a fig's flesh.

He clenched his jaw, instinctively reaching under a cushion for his knife. But when her lips curved into a knowing smile, it felt as though invisible cords pulled at his heart, loosening his grip on steel. In Vakeria, a noble feared sorcery and foul spirits as much as the raiders from the plains. He might have called on the saints for protection, but her presence was both sin and sacrament. There was power here—ancient, seductive power.

"Count Niketas," she purred, her voice low and rich, each syllable winding through his veins. He did not ask how she knew his name. In this moment, it seemed natural that creatures of the night would know every hidden corner of his life. "Do not tremble. I have come far to meet you." Her accent was lilting, foreign, flavored with promises he could not name.

His chest tightened. He tried to speak with authority: to demand her purpose. But what came out was a strained whisper. "What… do you want?"

She advanced, hips swaying, bare feet silent on the tiled floor. A scent drifted around her—smoldering incense, crushed rose petals, and something darker, like damp earth in a moonlit grave. It filled his lungs, stirring not fear but a heated, forbidden curiosity. He felt the old codes of honor and faith falter beneath the weight of longing. She came close, so close that when she raised a hand to the tapestry beside him, he sensed her warmth on his cheek.

"I see in you a hunger," she said, her voice a sweet hum against the hush. "A man burdened with wealth yet craving more than gold. You tire of bowing before a feeble Emperor, of playing the part of a noble pawn. You yearn for greatness—no, for dominion." Her words smoothed over his shame, teased out his secret ambitions. Did she know how many times he had dreamed of placing a crown atop his own head?

As she circled behind him, he stiffened. Eastern lords were taught caution: never show your back, never yield your ground. And yet, when her fingers, impossibly cool and delicate, touched his shoulder, he exhaled a trembling sigh. In that moment, he realized resistance would be futile. She was no fragile mortal. Her soft laughter brushed his ear, and his head tilted at her insistence, as though bewitched.

"Emperor Simon will cast blame at your feet, and you know it," she whispered. "Why let him succeed? You were born to rule, to reshape destiny. Vakeria and Gillyria—both within reach, if you gather chains of loyalty and gold-stitched alliances. Imagine: a fortress of your own, larger than the Emperor's, and fields that stretch beyond any horizon you have ever known. Gallant horsemen saluting, coin counters offering tribute by the wagonload, distant princes quaking at the whisper of your name."

Her words conjured a vision before his eyes. Lamplight wavered, and the room dissolved. He saw himself enthroned in a hall of carved marble pillars and painted vaults. Armored captains bowed low, their swords offered in silent fealty. An immense treasure, gleaming in piles of silver dinars and gold coins from distant lands, promised comfort and might. He saw proud noblewomen, once unattainable, kneeling before him, lips pressed to his ring, their scorn turned to reverence. And beyond the palace doors, a thousand villages prospered or withered at his word, tribute flowing as rivers of grain and honey into his granaries.

The vision thrilled him. By Saint Demetrius and the old gods of the woods, how could he not be tempted? He felt power's warm rush in his belly, mixing with a primal lust that sent gooseflesh rippling down his arms. Her body pressed against his back, her breath trailing hot against his neck, and the scent of her made him dizzy. He tasted something metallic on his tongue—his own desire, sharp as a blade.

"You might think these urges wicked," she murmured, her lips just brushing the line of his jaw. He shivered. "But consider them gifts. Pride, greed, anger, lust—tools for a man with vision. Use them, shape them, and you can bend the world to your will."

He swallowed, mind whirling. In his homeland, men prayed to icons for mercy, and mothers warned sons of evil spirits lurking in dark corners. He should cast her out, call for priests, sprinkle holy water, recite a psalm. Yet the weight of her seduction smothered those thoughts, made them absurd, childlike. He wanted this power. Let Emperor Simon think him a scapegoat—he would twist that plot against its maker. In the candle-washed gloom, it seemed the only logical path.

"How…" he managed to rasp. "Show me how."

Her laughter was soft, intimate. "Your family ties, your old alliances—turn them. Offer nobles what they lack: honors, lands, indulgences. Weave promises like a spider's web. Soon you shall topple Simon, and when you have seized Vakeria, we shall send whispers of strife into Gillyria. Let them tear at each other like starved wolves as you stand above the fray, unchallenged."

He pictured it all: secret meetings lit by guttering lamps, letters sealed in wax and carried by swift riders, veiled bribes pressed into trembling hands. The Mistress of the Abyss guided his thoughts as if tracing patterns in his mind, each promise and betrayal sculpted with wicked artistry.

He felt her lips near his ear, heard her purr, "You will not be alone. I will watch your ascent with delight." The brush of her fingertips sent sparks down his spine. He wanted to beg her to stay, to promise that after his victory she would still be there, a goddess at his side. But he dared not speak such weakness aloud.

When the vision faded, the solar's familiar contours returned. She withdrew with feline grace, leaving him hungering for her touch. Yet as she slipped back into the shadows, her perfume lingered, and the memory of that splendid throne hall shone bright in his mind. He realized he was trembling—not from fear, but from exhilaration.

Count Niketas inhaled slowly, composing himself like a man readying for war. The Mistress had ignited a fire inside him, one that holy water or penance could never quench. He would feed it with ambition and cunning until it blazed into an empire of his own making.

With a last flicker of lamplight upon her departing silhouette, he knew beyond doubt: he would do whatever it took to seize the destiny she had laid before him. In the hush that followed her departure, a single, unholy certainty solidified within him. The Spirit and Emperor might oppose him, but with this dark promise, he had found new faith—in himself, and the power he would soon command.